


On A Cold Winter's Night

by s0mmerspr0ssen



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Background Het, Christmas, Christmas Caroling, Christmas Music, Fluff, Jealousy, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-19
Updated: 2012-12-19
Packaged: 2017-11-21 14:34:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/598852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/s0mmerspr0ssen/pseuds/s0mmerspr0ssen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John started to get suspicious as soon as he walked in on Sherlock wearing a wool hat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On A Cold Winter's Night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nillawiffle](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=nillawiffle).



> \- Thanks to [pensiverainblossom](http://pensiverainblossom.tumblr.com/) for being my spontaneous beta-help.  
> \- A big thank you also goes to [AfroGeekGoddess](http://afrogeekgoddess.tumblr.com/), for giving me a fluffy prompt to work with.  
> \- Finally: this fic was written for a small fandom exchange on tumblr. My recipient was [nillawiffle](http://nillawiffle.tumblr.com/)! I am usually more of a kink girl, but I tried some Christmas fluff for you - hope you enjoy! :)

John started to get suspicious as soon as he walked in on Sherlock wearing a wool hat.  
  
Not the black, almost-elegant beanie sort of hat, but the bright red-and-green type with a bobble on top, blatantly screaming Christmas cheer.  
  
Sherlock was eyeing himself in the living room mirror, tugging at his curls to adjust his hair under the cap as he smiled at his reflection. It looked almost friendly. John was not sure he wanted to know what exactly was going on this time.  
  
“Early Christmas present from Mrs Hudson?” he ventured a guess, walking through the living room and into the kitchen to store away the shopping, two heavy paper bags filled to the very brim.  
  
“Of course not,” Sherlock retorted in his _isn’t-it-obvious_ -voice. “Mrs Hudson crochets. This is a knit hat.”  
  
John mumbled something that might have been “Bloody know-it-all.” and grabbed a footstool resting nearby so he could reach the higher kitchen shelves first.  
  
Busying himself with storing away tins and packages of all kinds, he nearly toppled off the stool in surprise when something soft and slightly scratchy was suddenly placed on his own head.  
  
He was saved from a painful fall by a long arm circling his midriff, steadying him.  
  
“What the hell, Sherlock,” John exclaimed, turning his head and raising one of his hands to pull the item off his head.  
  
It was another hat, this one bright blue with a snowflake pattern. Gaping a bit at the offending thing, John turned on the stool to stare down at his flatmate, for once actually taller than Sherlock. Sherlock’s arm abandoned his waist as he took the hat from John.  
  
“Just making sure it fits,” he said and once more placed the hat on John’s head in spite of the protests, eyes intense as he ran his fingers past John’s ears to tuck at the cap. “Very nice. You look charming.”  
  
The sarcasm was evident. John glared.  
  
“What is going on?” he asked him, exasperated. “Have you finally gone insane from the repetitive Christmas music you hate so much?”  
  
“Interesting you’d mention that,” Sherlock replied and turned away without any further explanation.  
  
Shaking his head, John finished his post-shopping task with the hat on, then left the kitchen to rid himself of his slightly damp jacket and shoes as well as his newly acquired headdress.  
  
As soon as he had settled down in his armchair with a cup of tea, making a grab for the newspaper, Sherlock appeared by his sight and shoved several sheets of paper into his hands instead.  
  
“Here,” Sherlock said. “You’ll need to practise.”  
  
Taking a deep breath to tone down on his annoyance, John leaned back again and looked at the slightly crumpled papers. It was sheet music. Thumbing quickly through the pages, John caught a glimpse of rather familiar titles: _Joy to the World_ , _Away in a Manger_ , _Silent Night_. Christmas carols, all of them.  
  
Looking up to ask the obvious question, John spotted Sherlock standing by the window, his violin propped up by his chin, no longer wearing the ridiculous hat. Before John could get out a single word though, Sherlock had already started in on _Hark! The Herald Angels Sing_.  
  
Four or five measures into the song he stopped, glaring at John.  
  
“You’re supposed to sing,” he snapped impatiently.  
  
“Excuse me?” John asked, but Sherlock had already launched into the song again, this time playing the familiar melody with a tad of aggression.  
  
“Are you being stubborn on purpose?” he asked eventually, clearly vexed when John did not join in this time either.  
  
“I am _confused_ ,” John replied honestly. “Why are we doing this?”  
  
“For a case. Obviously.”  
  
John rubbed a hand over his face. Of course. _Of course_. Always a case. He should have been used to it by now.  
  
“I’m not a singer,” he informed his flatmate.  
  
“Nonsense,” was Sherlock’s bored reply. “I’ve heard you warbling away in the shower. You have the most delightful tenor. Now sing!”  
  
John was stunned into actually following along this time.  
  
He _had_ played the clarinet once and thus butchered through the first measures with a mix of sight-reading and sort of knowing the song anyway. By the end of the second verse though, he had actually gained a bit of confidence, raising his voice to match the pitch of the violin.  
  
“Like I said: delightful tenor,” Sherlock informed him evenly, breaking off the song with the slightest of smirks, only to launch into _Silver Bells_ instead.  
  
They spent the next half hour singing and playing respectively, eventually interrupted by Mrs Hudson showing up by their door, who was clapping and smiling in pure delight.  
  
“Oh, how wonderful,” she said, once they had finished _What Child is This?_. “I’m so happy you’re embracing the holidays these days, Sherlock. No more moping on Christmas! John has been such a good influence on you. In fact, let me bring you some biscuits! I’ve just made a tin of orange and cinnamon snaps.”  
  
John did not bother to protest as she turned and hurried downstairs again, humming _Jingle Bells_ to herself.  
  
“This should suffice, I think,” Sherlock announced, stowing away his violin. “We’ll leave at five. Dress warmly, and don’t forget the hat!”  
  
He disappeared into his bedroom and locked the door behind him, leaving John to have tea and Christmas biscuits with Mrs Hudson.

  
John knew when to pick his battles and found himself wrapped up in his thickest coat, wearing gloves as well as the bright blue monstrosity of a hat by 5 pm.  
  
He couldn’t help but gape when Sherlock emerged from his bedroom, sporting his own dubious hat as well as a fitting scarf over his trademark coat.  
  
“Do I look cheery?” he asked, presenting John with a scarily bright and buoyant smile, seeming (to the untrained eye) about as happy as a child on Christmas morning.  
  
“Creepily so,” John told him honestly.  
  
“Perfect.”  
  
They left for the Tube, not taking a cab for once even though the Underground was busy during evening peak times. Sherlock was standing close to him, however, effectively shielding him from the other passengers, so the ride was comfortable enough.  
  
They changed lines once, riding out to the London suburbs.  
  
“Play along,” Sherlock murmured into John’s ear as they finally stepped off the Tube and approached a group of strangers. John tried not to think about the warm brush of lips against the shell of his ear as he followed.  
  
They were all dressed warmly in odd Christmas hats and scarves, clutching sheet music and laughing with an older woman butchering her way through _Deck The Halls_ on a harmonica. John was starting to get an inkling what this case would entail.  
  
“Abigail?” Sherlock asked the woman with the instrument, sporting a completely unfamiliar, friendly and endearing tone of voice.  
  
John had a hard time not to stare, instead trying to put on a charming smile of his own.  
  
“Ah. Sherrinford, correct?” Abigail asked, giving up on the harmonica for now. “So glad you’re joining our little group, we’re always happy about new faces.”  
  
“Oh, a pleasure,” Sherlock assured her. Were his eyes actually _sparkling with joy_? “This is Michael, by the way. He’d like to join us as well, if you don’t mind.”  
  
“Not at all,” Abigail said, shaking John’s offered hand. “Welcome aboard.”  
  
John didn’t need to be a genius to understand that tonight, Sherlock and he were apparently going undercover Christmas caroling.  
  
They waited for a few more minutes with two more women and their little sons joining the group before leaving the station. Meanwhile, John and Sherlock introduced themselves to the others and were forced to do small talk. Sherlock was surprisingly charming, resulting in more than one person present eyeing him rather interestedly.  
  
Once they had left the station, the group walked up the closest road which was lined with nicely-decorated little houses. With the light snowfall, it was all terribly idyllic, practically the opposite of what Sherlock usually prefered, case or not. Before John could find an opportunity to ask Sherlock _just why_ they were here though, a friendly door opened and Abigail struck up a song, providing the pitch on her harmonica.  
  
Hurrying to catch up with _Angels We Have Heard on High_ , John nearly lost his voice again as his ears managed to pick up on Sherlock’s smooth baritone.  
  
His singing voice was _stunning_. If John was a ‘delightful tenor’, Sherlock was a bloody opera singer. He had launched into a picture-perfect harmony rather than following the regular melody, bringing a whole new layer to the song. John could tell he was not the only one surprised in the group, as more than one head turned to present Sherlock with a quick, admiring glance.  
  
The collecting tin - the proceeds apparently destined for some charity involving orphans - rattled promisingly.  
  
Once they moved on to the next house, Sherlock was surrounded by admirers, praising him for his excellent singing prowess. Sherlock, in return, managed a stunningly accurate display of humble self-debasement.  
  
“You seem surprised I’d be so good at this,” he eventually commented when they had wrapped up two streets and John and he caught a moment alone.  
  
“I’ve never heard you sing before, have I?” John retorted. His cheeks felt rather flushed for no apparent reason. Maybe it was the cold, despite the woolen hat.  
  
“I excel at the violin; one’s voice is just another instrument,” Sherlock told him quietly.  
  
Before John could reply, Sherlock had turned to join in on another round of _God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen_.

  
They caroled for two whole hours. At some point, John actually wondered if this wasn’t about a case at all, perhaps Sherlock was harboring a secret weakness for Christmas music instead.  
  
He was proven wrong when they approached a small brick house, its small front garden decorated rather brightly with neon reindeer.  
  
“Get ready,” Sherlock murmured, his mouth once more terribly close to John’s ear, before grabbing John’s hand and gracefully pushing them both to the front of the group, rather than staying at the back as they had done before.  
  
The door was opened by a woman, probably in her late 30s, clearly delighted over the arrival of the caroling group. They presented her with _Joy to the World_ and John could tell the exact second the woman noticed Sherlock’s smooth and eerily beautiful voice.  
  
He was not surprised when she slipped a fiver into the tin. It turned odd, however, when the group started to leave, but Sherlock did not. Instead, he stepped up to the woman, thanking her personally for her generous donation with an incredibly warm smile. John didn’t even know Sherlock’s eyes could crinkle quite like that.  
  
There was an odd twitch in his stomach as he watched Sherlock place a hand on the woman’s shoulder as he talked to her, though he could not fathom why. Maybe, this fake side of Sherlock simply was too strange to bear without discomfort.  
  
The woman smiled back, licking her painted lips in a way that looked more than a tad rehearsed to John.  
  
He nearly gaped at her when she invited Sherlock in for a cup of mulled wine to ‘warm up a bit’.  
  
“I hope you don’t mind my friend joining?” Sherlock told her smoothly as he stepped through the door.  
  
The annoyed look she threw at John as she grudgingly invited him in as well was enough to tell him that she minded very much, in fact.  
  
They rid themselves of their jackets and were led into the kitchen. The woman, introducing herself as Louise, briefly busied herself with placing a pot on the hotplate and fetching a bottle of cheapish wine to pour into it. Once she had added sugar and stirred it a bit, she sat down right next to Sherlock, leaning towards him in a rather _intimate_ fashion.  
  
“Sherrinford, was it?” she said, batting her eyelashes. “I must say, your singing voice was rather incredibly lovely.”  
  
“Thank you,” Sherlock replied humbly, apparently playing the oblivious, almost foolish type of man. “Though I’m sure I’m rather average.”  
  
“I happen to be a chorus director, you know?” she continued smoothly. “I know what I am talking about, and I’m not exaggerating when I say that you’re quite the natural. Have you had any training at all?”  
  
John almost felt sick at her blatant flirting. She was a beautiful woman, undoubtedly. Yet, John did not find her attractive in any way. Something about the shade of her lipstick, maybe.  
  
Soon, Louise had made it quite clear that she would like nothing better than include Sherlock in the cast of one of London’s most prestigious choirs as well as invite him into her bedroom, though the latter message was brought across a tad more subtly than the former.  
  
Once she got up to serve the mulled wine, Sherlock turned towards John to murmur: “Ask her for the way to the bathroom, and be clumsy about it. I want her out of the kitchen for at least two minutes.”  
  
Feeling oddly annoyed, John still did as he was told, keeping Louise out of the kitchen with an act of infuriating cluelessness as to what ‘second door’, ‘on the left’ and ‘down the hallway’ could possibly mean.  
  
When John finally returned, Sherlock and Louise were already nursing their cups of steaming wine. John did not miss the fact that Sherlock’s left hand was resting on Louise’s upper thigh.  
  
“Ah, Michael,” Sherlock said when he caught sight of John in the doorway. “Didn’t you need to phone a friend right about now?”  
  
Knowing a clue when it was thrown at him, John only nodded tightly and turned towards the front door. He heard Louise say something, undoubtedly regarding John leaving, and Sherlock chuckled in reply.  
  
Swallowing harshly against the sudden bump in his throat, John hurried to redress and leave the house. Outside the door, he looked at his mobile phone. A text from Sherlock was waiting for him, sent almost ten minutes ago.  
  
  
` Have got proof she`  
`murdered the soloist`  
`of her show. Phone`  
`Lestrade with the`  
`address. Quickly.`  
`-S`  
  
  
John did as he was told, then shoved his hands into his coat pockets, curling his shoulders in against the cold as he waited.  
  
Lestrade arrived not fifteen minutes later, two constables in tow.  
  
“This the one?” he asked and John nodded, stepping aside to let Lestrade ring the doorbell.  
  
It took Louise three minutes to answer the insistent ringing. When she opened the door, she was wearing a dressing gown rather than the jeans-and-shirt she had sported not half an hour ago.  
  
“What _is_ it?” she asked, clearly annoyed at being interrupted.  
  
John did not want to think about just what she had been doing with Sherlock still inside and tuned out Lestrade rattling off his official statements and showing off his warrant card.  
  
He only took notice again when Sherlock showed up behind Louise, perfectly dressed and holding up a knife, placed in a freezer bag.  
  
“Here you go,” he said, reaching past Louise to place it right into Lestrade’s hands. “There’s still traces of blood, if you examine it closely. Fingerprints too, undoubtedly.”  
  
John did not bother to hide his pleased smile when Louise was arrested and led away, carefully watched by the two constables.  
  
“Thank you, Sherlock,” Lestrade told him. “No breaking-and-entering, right?”  
  
“She invited me in,” Sherlock replied evenly. “Can’t help if I notice a murder weapon lying in her kitchen, can I?”  
  
“Right,” Lestrade responded and left with a friendly wave for John.  
  
Still oddly delighted with how things had turned out, John stepped up to Sherlock, who was still standing in the doorway.  
  
“This was the plan, then?” he asked. “Acquiring the weapon in a sort-of-legal way?”  
  
“She had a motive, but it wasn’t enough for a warrant,” Sherlock explained. “I deduced she had a preference for tall and handsome singers, especially if they come across as a tad naive.”  
  
“I see,” John said. “Tall and handsome.”  
  
“Don’t you agree?” Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow, before swooping down and placing a soft, lingering kiss on John’s mouth.  
  
When he straightened again, John only gaped up at his flatmate, cheeks flushed.  
  
“W-what?” he stammered.  
  
“Mistletoe,” Sherlock replied, pointing upwards.  
  
Indeed, upon looking up, John spotted a twig of mistletoe fastened right over the entrance. Sherlock must have taken care not to step underneath it when talking to Louise earlier.  
  
“Didn’t take you for a stickler to tradition,” John managed through his feelings of confusion mixed with a fair amount of utter delight.  
  
“With the right person, it seemed as good an excuse than any.”  
  
They ambled back towards the station holding hands. John ignored the fact it was a terribly teenaged thing to do.  
  
“You look terrible in that hat,” John told him eventually as they walked through the still-falling snow.  
  
“As do you in yours,” Sherlock replied.  
  
John pulled him down for another kiss then, just because he could.  
  
They hummed _Winter Wonderland_ all the way back to the station, chuckling in between verses. John found he rather felt the holiday cheer.

  
_fin._


End file.
